Avalon
by Gemini Star01
Summary: The old world is dying, Alfred. Arthur is just the first." People, animals, even entire countries all eventually fade away, but life and love always find a way to go on...
1. The Death of a Nation

**Title: **Avalon (part 1/4)

**Character(s) or Pairing(s): **US, UK, Canada, France, off-screen cameo of Japan and mentions of various others. Sort've US/UK, if you squint. Also kinda US/Canada in later chapters, but not really. It's hard to tell between family love and romantic love sometimes, you know? **  
Rating: **PG/K+

**Warnings: **Character death, sort've, but with a happy ending. Original Character introduced in later chapters...er, sort've. Just trust me. I'm kinda trying to be a professional at this. **  
Summary: **"The old world is dying, Alfred. Arthur is just the first." People, animals, governments and nations all pass away, but life and love will always find away to continue on….

**Author's Note: **Aaaaaand, once again, a new fandom has snuck up on me without warning. This story jumped out of my head before I could stop it, but now that it's out, I'll be able to focus on something else. Thank you and please enjoy.

People had called it the end of the world.

China had scoffed at that, rueful and pensive, with a strangely distant gleam in his eye. The world, he said, had come to an end many times before and it had always rebuilt itself in the end. History was a cycle that would continue on its course time and time again. People, animals, governments, even entire nations would one day disappear, but life would always find away to continue on.

His words were rational and heavy with the wisdom of the world's oldest empire. But they didn't make things any easier.

"Alfred?"

America was shaken from his brooding by England's voice. He pushed a grin on his face and kept it there as he moved to England's bedside. "What's up, Arthur?"

England returned the smile, though his was weak and unsteady. America suppressed a wince. It hurt him to see his former mentor – his _brother_ – like this. He looked so old. So tired. So small. His body was wasting away with his people, ravaged by the diseases that had taken so many.

"Do me a favor?" England asked softly, nodding to the window seat on the other side of the room. "I'd like to go over there."

He couldn't even move on his own now, but Alfred knew how important it must be for Arthur to actually ask him for help. So he put on a smile, piped up, "Sure thing!" and scooped the older nation into his arms. Despite the hard times, America was as strong as ever, easily sweeping England, a pillow and the island country's favorite blanket across the room to the window.

America set him down gently, careful not to jostle him too much, and tucked the pillow behind his back. England shifted until he was comfortable, muttering a soft thanks. He fiddled with the latch, unsteady hands tripping over the old metal until America finally got the hint and opened the window for him.

A cool gust of crisp, salty air burst through the open panes, filling the room with the smell of the ocean. England closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it a moment to savor the tang of the brine. "It's quite a lovely view from up here, wouldn't you say?"

"Sure is," America said, and grinned. England was always happier when the ocean was nearby. That was why they had moved him out here, to this summer house on the eastern coast of his island, after London…

Well, they didn't really talk about London any more. Nobody did.

"That coastline used to be further out, you know," England said, waving a hand at the rocky beach on the edge of his property. "You didn't used to be able to see it. Smell it, sure, but not see it. Can't really complain, though."

America stuffed his hands into his pockets, nodding absently though he hadn't a clue what England was talking about. Without turning his head, he gave the other country a quick glance. England's green eyes were out of focus and there was a goofy smile on his worn features, as though he were remembering a joke he had heard a very, very long time ago.

"It's rather funny, if you think about it: people always act like land is so permanent, while the ocean is always changing. It's only when you live as long as us that you realize how wrong they are. The land is always changing. The coastlines. The mountains. The borders and boundaries. They all change. But the sea…she remains the same, always and forever."

America rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "If you say so."

England didn't say anything, but he wasn't really listening now. He was smiling, sitting up straight and tall and gazing out at the sea as though he were greeting an old friend. His face glowed gold in the late afternoon sunlight and, for a moment, Alfred saw him as he must have looked hundreds of years ago, when Pirate Captain Arthur Kirkland had led the ruffians of the English fleet through victory after glorious victory on the high and mighty seas.

He chased the fleeting fancy away with a light shake of his head, turning away from the window and back to the nightstand he'd been working at before. There was a tea set on it, with two cups and a pot that still had the slightest bit of steam rising from its spout. "Ah, I almost forgot. How did you want that tea again? Two sugars?"

England grunted, never taking his eyes off the ocean. America took that as an assent and bustled over to prepare it. "Oh, but the way, I ought to tell you – Francis stopped by about noon to check up on Matthew and insisted on sticking around to cook dinner. I know you're gonna bitch about his cooking and all, but there's no way Mattie's going to let you get away without eating this time. He keeps saying that you need to eat better to get you back to full health."

Again, England said nothing. America assumed he was pouting and let silence reign between them, though he punctuated it with the clatter of sugar cubes into the empty china cup. Once the tea was added, he clanked the spoon against the side as loudly as he could, waiting in anticipation of reprimands that never came.

Instead, England heaved a heavy sigh and spoke again in the same tired, even, content tone that had come before. "Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you, you know."

America stopped and did a quick double-take. England still wasn't looking at him, still gazing at the ocean as though hypnotized by the waves. So America laughed, awkwardly, turned his attention back to stirring the tea, and said, "Nice of you to say that _now_, after all those times you called me a worthless git behind my back."

"Heh. I suppose so," England chuckled, shifted and sighed with content. "And Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For everything."

America grinned honestly at that, clanking the spoon against the side of the teacup merrily to knock the last droplets back into the pool. "Auw, c'mon Iggy, you know you don't have to thank me. After all, what're friends –?"

Something – he couldn't really explain what, but it was an odd tingling feeling that struck from behind with the force of an air cannon – knocked the last cliché words out of America's mouth. A gust of wind rushed passed, rattling the curtains and the teacups and the bed sheets. With a growing sense of dread gnawing at his gut, America turned back to the window.

The teacup tumbled from his hands and spilt across the carpet.

England was gone.

"…Arthur?" America called, moving to the window. The pillow had tumbled to the floor, but the hand-embroidered blanket remained on the seat. It was still warm.

Cold fear gripped America by the heart. He gripped the window frame hard enough to pull the wood paneling out of the wall, leaning out to search the ground below. There was no sign of England. "Arthur? Arthur! Arthur, where are you? Answer me! _Arthur!"_

The wind continued to blow around him, strong and heavy with the scent of the sea, but there was still no sign of the missing country. Panicking, America ran out the bedroom door and straight into Canada, who had been coming up the stairs to investigate the noise.

"Gah! Alfred, what the hell?" Canada yelped, grabbing the banister with both hands. Only the fact that he was just as strong as his brother kept him from being hurled back down the stairs from whence he'd come. "What's the matter with you? How on earth do you expect Arthur to –"

"He's gone!"

Canada blinked. "What?"

"He's gone, Mattie, Arthur's gone!" America grabbed his brother by the shoulders and shook him, trying to drive home the importance of his words. "I took my eyes off him for two minutes and then he was gone! He must've fallen out the window, but he's not answering! He's gotta be hurt or unconscious or abducted or –"

"That is quite enough."

France seemed to appear from nowhere, bounding up the stairs to grasp America's hands and pull a fairly rattled Canada from his grip. The Freshman's expression was oddly serious, keeping the frazzled America in place even though the hand on his wrist would never have held him back on its own.

"Now slow down, Alfred, and tell us calmly," he said, punctuating each word with the utmost importance. "What happened to Arthur?"

"I don't _know!_" America insisted, sucking in a deep breath before he continued. "One minute he was there, in his room, talking about the ocean; next minute he was just…_gone!_"

France's expression grew darker. His grip, both the one supporting Canada and the one holding America steady, loosened until the twins were standing on their own. He bit his lip and lowered his head, his face hiding for a moment behind his hair. _"Tu stupid Angleterre…"_

"Francis!" snapped America, who didn't really understand French but recognized an insult when he heard it. "This is no time for one of your stupid fights! We have to find Arthur, he could be hurt!"

"_Non, mon frère,"_ France muttered from behind his bangs. "England is not hurt. There isn't anything that could hurt him now."

The words hit like a bomb and left fallout of tension in its wake. Canada gasped quietly and cupped a hand over his mouth. "Francis, you don't mean…"

"What the hell do you mean by that?" America pulled his hand from France's grip, stumbling two steps up towards the landing without looking. "Of course he can still get hurt! Jesus Christ, just because he's been sick doesn't mean it's not going to hurt him to fall out of a blasted window!"

"Alfred," France said slowly, choosing his words with care. "I can't say I'm surprised that you don't know. You are young, and you have been much sheltered, isolated on your continent of promise and new life. Never before have you witnessed a nation – a true nation – pass from this world."

Canada closed his eyes at that, biting down on the knuckle of his thumb. America stiffened, gripping the railing with trembling hands.

Slowly, kindly, France reached out to the elder twin, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him. "You must realize, both of you, that our kind do not grow old and die as humans do. It is not in our nature to leave a shell behind to rot. When our time comes, we go, and leave nothing but the history of what we once were. I believe it was one of your men, Alfred, who said it best – 'Great soldiers never die. They just fade away.'"

"No…" America stumbled back again, his steps more and more erratic. "No, no, you're wrong. You're wrong. You have to be wrong. Arthur's not…he can't be…"

"It was inevitable," said France, and Alfred suddenly realized how old he looked now. As old as England had looked, though not as tired, not yet, there were still strength in his limbs, but not enough, never enough… "The old world is dying, Alfred. Arthur is just the first. You must accept this."

"No…"

"Arthur is dead. England is dead."

"No! No, no, no!"

"He's _gone_, Alfred!"

"_NO!"_

America tripped on the very top step and finally lost his balance. Canada yelped, _"Alfred!"_

France moved just in time to catch America as he fell, the young nation sagging into his grip with a sob. His glasses clattered down the stairs, but Alfred paid them no mind, hiding his eyes in Francis's shoulder. He clung to the Frenchman like a child, crying and crying, and then he looked up and saw the tears in France's eyes and that made him cry harder. And then Canada, who was sniffling and rubbing at his eyes, came up the stairs and put his arms around both of them, and the three nations mourned the world's loss together for the first and final time.

_**TBC…**_


	2. Avalon

**Title: **Avalon (part 2/4)

**Character(s) or Pairing(s): **US, UK, Canada, France, off-screen cameo of Japan and mentions of various others. Sort've US/UK, if you squint. Also kinda US/Canada in later chapters, but not really. It's hard to tell between family love and romantic love sometimes, you know? **  
Rating: **PG/K+

**Warnings: **Character death, sort've, but with a happy ending. OC-type creatures makes his appearance in this chapter. **  
**

Calls came in throughout the night from all over the world. The news spread throughout the nations of the world like a living creature, fueled by the convenience of modern communication and the tingling uncertainty of their international bonds. Every country that lit up the phone lines in that quiet English night had the same question on their lips and all of them knew the same answer before it was inevitably spoken.

"_Is England really…?"_

"_Yes. He's gone."_

Canada took each call with quiet dedication, keeping his mind busy and off the pain of the loss. France had stayed for several hours to cook supper for the boys, but finally decided to make his way home around midnight. America remained in the window seat in England's room, staring out at the ocean as though hypnotized, until the early hours of the morning, when he muttered that he would soon return and slipped out the back door.

Canada found him in the back yard several hours after the sun had risen, laboriously hauling a stone the size of his own head from the ocean shore up to the very edge of the cliff. As he watched, America deposited the stone on top of a dozen others, the same size and weight, carefully organized into a small pyramid. While he was absorbed in making sure all the stones were in a perfect, stable alignment, Canada approached his brother cautiously. "Alfred?"

America glanced back at him, sighed and straightened, shoving his glasses up his nose. He took a step back and stared at his handiwork, his expression distant and blank. "This is all we get."

"What?"

"This is all we get. An entire country dies, and this is all we get to remember him by," America gripped his hands into tight fists, glaring at the pyramid as though the force of his sorrow could make it tumble back into the sea. "People get monuments and services, cities leave behind ruins and artifacts. But Arthur? We don't even get a body to bury."

Canada nibbled his lower lip, which was chapped from a night repeating the action over and over. He rested his hands on his brother's arm, trying to come up with some small comfort. "That's not entirely true. Francis said that nations leave behind their history, right? The history books will remember."

"But that's England's history. England, the country. This rock. Not Arthur's."

"You really think they're separate things?"

"Of course not," America's voice trembled a bit. "But they're not the same."

Canada hm'ed slightly, half to America, half to himself, and leaned his head against his brother's shoulder. America was too tense for blatant displays of affection, so he offered what comfort he could, rubbing his hands against the worn, well-loved leather of his jacket. "Don't go beating yourself up over this, okay? This isn't your fault. None of it is."

"I won't."

He was lying. Canada could tell, but he didn't press the issue. He knew his brother well enough to know that he would make it through this. He also knew that America wouldn't accept a hug, not now that he actually needed one, so he just patted the worn, well-loved leather of his jacket a few times before pulling away. "I'm gonna go inside and get breakfast started. Pancakes and syrup sound good to you?"

"Yeah, sure," America muttered dismissively, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Sounds great, Mattie. You just go on ahead, okay? I'll…catch up in a bit."

"Okay."

Canada retreated back to the safety of the old house and his maple syrup. Alfred stood there for a long while after his brother had left, staring at the hastily-crafted monument and wondering if Arthur would have approved. Probably not. He'd probably say that it was too ancient and simplistic, or that the shoddy craftsmanship was a sign of the inherent laziness of Americans.

"_Couldn't even be bothered to carve me a proper headstone, could you? That's gratitude for you."_

The glimmer of imagination brought a smirk to America's face, but it only lasted a few brief moments before his heart sank into his toes again. He sighed into the wind and leaned his head back as far as his neck would allow, forcing the tears back into their ducts before they were fully realized. He wouldn't cry again. He couldn't cry again. Heroes didn't cry. They mourned, and then they moved on.

A yelp echoed over the wind, and America jumped. He turned after the sound and blinked in surprise, trying to figure out where it had come from. Across the yard, one of several carefully-tended blackberry hedges trembled and yelped again before depositing a rather scraped-up child onto the well-cut grass.

The little boy was quite small, no more than a toddler really. His pale skin was covered in scrapes from the thorny bushes and the white clothing he wore – it looked a bit like a baptismal gown – was splotched with blackberry juice. Though he was young, his hair was as white as Iceland's and his eyes were the same deep blue-grey of the English sea far below. And above those eyes…

America's eyes widened. Those eyebrows were unmistakable. "Arthur?"

The child, who had been blowing on the stinging scrapes to keep them from hurting too bad, froze. With a frightened yelp, he leapt to his feet and dashed away down the garden path.

"H-Hey!" America sputtered. "Wait a second!"

He followed after the child, stumbling a bit on the cobblestone path before breaking into an all-out run. By the time Alfred got there, the little boy had already climbed over the gate and was dashing down the country road. America followed him intently, a bit surprised that he couldn't catch up even at full speed. This kid wasn't normal.

Well, America had to admit, that much had been obvious from the start. There were no other houses around for miles, only abandoned farmlands, no normal toddler would have been able to make it all the way out to this point by himself, not to mention scrambling through the thorny blackberry bushes without shedding so much as a tear. What's more, Alfred recognized the strange sensation that the boy gave off. It was the same feeling he'd gotten when he had met Canada for the first time, the feeling that had drawn him from his wild home to meet Finland and Sweden and Spain and finally England and France. It was the unmistakable feeling of Their Kind.

America's heart leapt at the thought and gave him an extra boost of speed. Those eyebrows, that face, that feeling…it couldn't really be, could it? He had to know for sure. And to do that, he had to catch the kid.

The chase lead him into an old, overgrown apple orchard that had been allowed to grow wild since its farmer had succumbed to whatever terrible fate had been in store for him. It had grown over the path so thickly that the twisting branches blocked out the sun, all except for a few bright patches that broke through here and there. Though it was only a decade old at the most, the darkness made the grove feel ancient, like the forests that had once grown across America's lands, back when they been all but untouched by human hands.

America shivered a bit in the chill of the shade, pulling his jacket around him a bit more. The child had disappeared from his sight, but he knew that the boy was still around. He could feel him. He just had to find him.

"Hey," he called, keeping his voice soft enough to be unthreatening, but projecting it far enough to be heard. "I know you're here. C'mon out. You don't have to hide from me, you know, I'm not scary."

There was no response. America's face fell slightly, and his next words were a bit more desperate. "Please come out. Please…_Arthur…_"

High above, a branch snapped with a sickening crack. America shot his head up to find the little boy clinging to the trunk like a squirrel, climbing higher and higher with each passing moment.

"H-Hey! Be careful up there!" America shouted. The little boy glanced back him with scared eyes, climbing faster than before. "No, stop! It's dangerous!"

If the boy heard him, it only spurred him on. America could only watch in horror as he climbed deeper and deeper into the old, twisted, untended branches. He could hear the way they creaked and groaned under the child's weight, each uncertain sway striking fear deeper and deeper into his heart.

"Please, _please_ come down from there!" he begged. "You're gonna fall…!"

_Snap_.

The branch directly below the boy's foot gave way. He dropped out of the tree with a cry and plummeted like a stone. America dove after him, arms outstretched, almost choking on the strangled "No!" that burst from his throat.

Seconds later, it was all over.

America lay on the ground, a slight skid mark left in the grass behind him. His glasses had been thrown clear, his jacket was stained with mud and his breathing was unsteady as he tried to get his pounding heart back under control. He lay on his back with his eyes closed, focusing on the strange new weight that rested half on his chest and half in his arms. For a long while, the only sound he heard was his own heart pounding in his ears. Then, a new voice, young and uncertain, spoke from above.

"Hey…Hey, mister. Are you okay?"

America forced his eyes opened and blinked at the blurry white and peach blob above him. The little boy's unmistakable white eyebrows were knitted together in concern, his little hands fisted around the cloth of America's t-shirt. He was visibly shaken and still bore scratches from his encounter with the blackberry bush, but was otherwise unharmed.

His face was so familiar. i_Oh, Arthur…/i_

America smiled at the thought and sat up, shifting the boy into his lap. "I'm fine. What about you?"

"I'm okay," the boy muttered, and blushed. He scrambled out of America's lap and crawled barely a foot away, scooping up America's glasses from where they had fallen. "Um, I think these are yours."

"Thanks," America said, slipping them on.

Up close and in focus, he could see now that the boy didn't look nearly as much like Arthur as he had first appeared, though that wasn't to say he looked dissimilar. His face had the same shape, if a bit softer around edges, his hair was in a similarly unruly style, though significantly less coarse, and the eyebrows remained as obvious as ever, even if they looked more like a pair of little white mice than the famous black caterpillars.

He peaked up at America through his hair, his blue-grey eyes gleaming with uncertainty. "Hey, mister," he said quietly. "Who are you, anyway?"

America's heart thumped painfully, but he grinned in spite of it. "My name's Alfred. Alfred F. Jones. But you know, most folks just call me America."

"Ah-mare-ee-kah," the boy said, trying out the name slowly, and giggled. "Mister America."

America patted the boy on the head, marveling a bit at just how soft his hair was. He hesitated a bit before he asked. "And what about you, kiddo? You got a name?"

"Avalon," said the child, and blushed again. "Thanks for catchin' me, Mister America."

"Aw, you don't have to thank me. I'm a hero! That's what heroes do."

Avalon looked spell-bound at that. "A real hero?"

"Well, I don't know if I can say that, exactly," America said, rubbing his neck. He sure didn't feel like a hero right now. More like a jerk for scaring the heck out of and now leading on the kid who was looking up at him so reverently. "But I do try."

"Wow…"

America sighed. Avalon was still staring at him as though he had hung the moon, and the boy's similarity to Arthur was enough to make it a little unnerving. But Alfred had to admit, the kid was very cute. And, even though it wasn't the person he had hoped for, America found that he really didn't want to leave just yet.

"Hey, Mister America?" Avalon asked shyly, tugging at America's coat. "You wanna play with me?"

America grinned. "Sure. Sounds like fun."

_**biTBC…/b/i**_


	3. Seeing the Unseelie

**Title: **Avalon (part 3/4) **  
Character(s) or Pairing(s): **US, UK, Canada, France, off-screen cameo of Japan and mentions of various others. Sort've US/UK, if you squint. Also kinda US/Canada in later chapters, but not really. It's hard to tell between family love and romantic love sometimes, you know?

**Rating: **PG/K+

**Warnings: **Character death, but with a happy ending. **  
**

_Riiiing. click._

"Hello? Oh, Kiku. Good morning."

Canada cradled the old portable phone between his shoulder and his ear, freeing his hands to continue scrubbing his breakfast dishes. "Oh, we're doing all right, I suppose. Well, we're dealing at least. There's not a lot else we can do right now."

A dollop of suds floated up and landed on the tip of his nose. Canada went cross-eyed pouting at them and tried, somewhat futilely, to blow them off. "Alfred? He's…coping. Well enough, I suppose. But you know how he is, he can handle it. No, I'm not worried about him."

"…Yes, I'm lying." Canada sighed, gave up on the bubbles and pulled the plug out of the sink. "I can't help it. He and Arthur were pretty close, you know, even though they didn't act like it. They always treated each other so bad, but they never _really_ hated each other. I just don't know how Al's going to take it from here on out."

On the other end of the line, Japan offered the small comfort that America was indeed as hardy as his brother had assumed. Canada dried his hands on a dishtowel, shifting the phone onto the other shoulder to give his neck a break. "Well, enough about our sad situation. How are things with you?"

"Hong Kong? No, I haven't heard from him. How long has it been?"

Japan's answer was very soft. Canada started in surprise. "What? That long? I know he's never been the talkative type, but…are you sure no one's heard from him?"

"Tibet, too? Oh, Christ…"

Canada groaned and sank into a chair, laying his elbows across the breakfast table. His left hand raked restlessly through his hair as his right held the phone steady against his ear. "This is really happening, isn't it? The world's really going to hell, and everyone's just…Jesus. How are you holding up?"

"Yeah, me too. Not quite as young as before, but not bad," Canada sat up, and his back ached in protest. He didn't remember that ache. He'd been stuck in his late-teens for so many centuries that he'd forgotten what growing pains felt like. "Come to think of it, Al looks like he's aged a few years since this all started, too. Not a lot, maybe four or five. I think that's a good sign. We're probably going to make it through. I just wonder about everybody else."

Japan's words finally brought a smile to his face, followed by a light chuckle. "Heh. Well, if that's what China says, I suppose we can trust it."

"Yeah, me too. I'll tell Al you called. Catch you later, Kiku."

Canada sighed again as he clicked the button to hang up the phone. He set it on the table beside him and rested his head in his arms, much to the frustration of Kumajiro, who was trying to clamber into his lap. He blew up the curly bit of hair that fell into his eyes and stared at Alfred's breakfast. Five sad-looking, syrup-soaked pancakes sat mournfully untouched on the plate, soggy and cold and practically inedible now.

'Catch up in a bit,' he'd said. Who knew that 'a bit' would mean upwards of three hours?

Canada groaned and stood, picking Kumajiro up from the floor. He carried the bewildered polar bear to the window, pulled back the curtain, and gazed at the pyramid of stones. "Jeez, Alfred," he muttered, "Just where the hell are you?"

**( - )**

"Look, America, look!"

America looked, but all he could see was Avalon dancing alone in the grassy, overgrown field. This area had been cleared once, for farming, but, like the forest, it had been left untended in the hard times and the wildflowers had reclaimed it. "Look at what?"

"My friends!" Avalon giggled, his arms dipping and weaving through the air as though he were catching fireflies on a warm summer night. "They're dancing for us, 'cause I asked them to! Aren't they pretty? Look at all the colors!"

America's face fell slightly. "Your…friends?"

"Uh-huh! They've been with me since the beginning, and they took real good care of me when I was little!"

_Oh god, not this again…_

America swallowed, a painful lump rising in his throat. England had always done this. Well, he'd never danced in the fields as far as America knew – the very thought was enough to make him snort – but he'd always spoken of 'his friends' in such endearing tones. The unicorn, the fairies, the elves; England's delusions (and unnatural love for tea) were really the only things that remained constant about the older nation throughout the hundreds of years they had known each other.

It made sense, if Avalon really was what he looked like he was, that the boy would have the same 'friends.' But none of them were real. They'd never been real. America had always known that.

America swallowed again, choosing his next words very carefully. "I…I'm sorry, Avalon, but I can't…"

Avalon stared up at him with wide, blue-green eyes. Something in his hands flashed a brilliant purple.

America blinked, and the purple flash came again. He blinked several times, as rapidly as he could, and the flashes came faster and faster, the light remaining behind longer and longer until it finally didn't go out at all. As though his vision were clearing after a knock on the head, the light twisted around and reformed itself before America's eyes, until, finally, he could see its source with blinding clarity.

It was a tiny purple woman with gossamer, dragonfly-like wings, sitting in the cradle of Avalon's palms as easily as a normal person would a recliner.

America suddenly found it very hard to breath. "What the –"

The fairy – because that was the only thing it could be, a fairy – turned at looked up at him with eyes like tiny polished sapphires. She giggled, in a voice composed of the highest notes on a harpsichord, and flew to America with a swift buzz of her wings. She hovered in front of his face and tapped him on the nose, as if to say, in her little fairy way, "Yup! I'm real, big guy!"

America pulled away with a gasp, and suddenly there were a dozen of them, in all colors of the rainbow. The danced on the wind like butterflies, leaving trails of colorful sparks in their wake and singing, all in high-pitched, beautiful notes as clear and true as the finest crystal. They flew circles around little Avalon's head, playing with his hair and his gown and doing everything they could to make him smile, like tiny celestial nannies tending to their charge.

America stared, wide-eyed and amazed, his brain shutting down from the overload of shock. Only the most obvious of words could make their way to his mouth: "They're _real_."

"Of course they're real!" Avalon giggled, spinning around. "They're my friends!"

America tumbled into the ground and sat in the grass, just staring at the haunting, beautiful sight before him. The little purple fairy flew up to him again and danced around his head, her voice ringing magically in his ear.

"They say they've been waiting a long time for you to come to your senses," Avalon translated diligently, his eyebrows scrunching together with innocent bewilderment. "I wonder what they mean by that."

"Yes…I wonder…"

_I'm sorry, Arthur. You were right all along. _

Avalon frowned. Brushing his fairy friends away gently, he shuffled through the grass and crawled into America's lap. Big eyes looked up at him in concern. "Mister America? Why are you crying?"

He was crying? America hadn't realized it, but he was, a few stray tears rolling down his cheeks in lazy streams. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. His voice caught in his tightened throat, and he swallowed the sob that wanted to bubble out of him

"America…?"

"It's nothing," America insisted softly, rubbing a bit harder as more tears came. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking of…of an old friend."

"A friend?" Avalon's face scrunched up in further. "But why would thinking of friends make you sad?"

America sighed and pulled his arm away from his eyes. He looked down at Avalon and placed a hand on the back of the boy's head. He looked so much like England. "Normally, it wouldn't, but…my friend had to go away recently."

Avalon grabbed the sleeve of America's jacket with both of his eager little hands. "But if he's your friend, he'll come back to see you real soon, won't he?"

"Avalon," America's voice cracked, and he had to clench his eyes closed for a moment to cut off the tears before they could come. He pressed his hand against the back of Avalon's head, assuring himself that the boy was real. He was really, really _real_. "Sometimes, when friends go away…sometimes they can't come back. Not ever. And my friend…my Arthur…he's not coming back."

Avalon's eyes grew wide. "Not _ever?_"

"Not ever."

A glimmer of worry passed over Avalon's face, and America instantly felt guilty. This boy was too small to worry about death and loss. He should be laughing and dancing and playing with his fairy friends and enjoying life. Instead he was here, comforting a washed-up old pilot who couldn't let a dead friend lie in peace…

Suddenly, Avalon was standing and pushing the corners of America's mouth up with his little hands. When America looked down at him through the unusual pressure of his cheeks, the little boy smiled at him.

"You don't look good when you're frowning," he said with a little giggle. "Mister America has a happy face, so Mister America should always be smiling! 'Cause that's the way that you look the best!"

America chuckled, and his smile became real. Avalon let go and fell back into the older nation's lap, holding onto America's jacket to guide himself down. "You know, I don't think your friend would want you to be sad. 'Cause if he knew you were sad because of him, well, that would make him sad too, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose that's true," America said softly, though he wasn't completely sure. England had never really been the touchy-feely type.

"And you know what else?" Avalon asked rhetorically, tugging on the bomber jacket to keep the older nation's attention. "Since he can't come around to be your friend anymore, I'm gonna do it instead! So from now on, I'll be your friend, and you won't ever have to be sad! Okay?"

America's smile widened and he pulled Avalon in for a hug. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," the little boy giggled and wrapped his arms around the older nation's neck. America held him tightly, memorizing his weight, his smell, the softness of his hair. The fairies – England's beautiful, magical fairies – danced around them like a maypole, leaving their warm and magical dust behind like a blessing of happiness as they rose up into the bright, clear summer sky.

_**TBC…**_


	4. A Family

**Title: **Avalon (part 4/5)

**Character(s) or Pairing(s): **US/UK (sort've) Canada, France, mentions of various others. **  
Rating: **PG/K+

**Warnings: **Character death, sort've, but with a happy ending. **  
**

About the time that the sun began to duck down behind the tops of the trees, Avalon yawned wide enough to show off his tonsils, rubbing his eye with a little paw-like fist. America grinned at this and leaned down, patting the little boy on the head. "Getting kinda sleepy, are you?"

"Uh-huh," Avalon yawned again, then popped his jaw back into place and shook his head violently. "But I can stay awake as long as you're here, America!"

"Is that so?" America straightened, wincing a bit as he felt a crick pop out of his back, and turned his eyes to the horizon. The sky was starting to turn a deep orange, and there were purple clouds on the horizon, heralding an oncoming storm. "Ah, I didn't realize how late it was. My brother's probably all worried."

Avalon's face fell. "Does that mean you're leaving?"

"I'm afraid so." America sighed, feeling as disappointed as the little boy looked. Then a new idea – a _brilliant_ idea – sparked into his mind, and renewed his smile. "Unless you'd like to come with me."

"Come with you?" Avalon asked, his words slurred by exhaustion and bewilderment. "What do you mean?"

"Back to my house. Well, it really isn't _my_ house, but it could be yours," America chuckled a bit, running a hand through the hair on the back of his own head. "Actually, it's bound to be yours. Seems only right, and I'm sure old Arthur would agree…"

"I don't get it," said Avalon miserably, and yawned again.

America stooped down and swept the little boy into his arms. Avalon's arms wrapped around his neck automatically, and he leaned his head against the larger shoulder like a pillow.

"I'm asking you if you'd like to live in a big house all your own, so you don't have to sleep out in the rain anymore," America's grin widened, his words growing more and more rapid as his excitement began to build. "And you'll have a nice soft bed and warm baths and lots of rooms to hide in. And you'll meet my brother, and he'll teach you to cook, 'cause I'm no good at it, and it'll be like…like a family."

"A family?"

"Yeah. A family," America hugged Avalon tightly, breathing in his sweet scent one more time. "Just you and your…big brother."

"Big brother," Avalon repeated, committing the idea to memory, and yawned again. "Does that mean I should call you Nii-san?"

A lump rose up in America's throat. "That would be…I mean…just call me whatever you want."

"America-nii-san," Avalon decided resolutely, and closed his eyes. "Big Brother America…I like that…"

With those last trailing words, he drifted to sleep, his head pillowed happily in the crux of America's shoulder. America watched him sleep in peace for just a moment, stroking his hair as he thought. Then he sighed and headed back up the road to England's old home.

**( - )**

"Alfred!"

Canada burst from the door the minute his brother appeared at the garden gate, still in his red apron adorned with the white maple leaf that England had made him for a birthday once upon a time. He dashed up the slick cobblestone path with all the speed and grace of a young moose on an icy mountain trail, sliding to a stop inches before colliding with America head-on. "Jesus Christ, Al, you had me worried sick! Do you have any idea how late it is?"

"Sorry Mattie," said Alfred and, to his credit, he really did sound sorry. "I guess I just got a bit distracted."

He shifted the bundle in his arms. Canada's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Is that a –"

"Yeah. He's one of us."

Canada sucked in his breath and leaned over Avalon hesitantly, afraid to wake the sleeping child. With gentle hands, he brushed the silky white bangs away from his forehead. "Those eyebrows. Do you think he's –"

"England's. Yeah. At least, I think he is. He says his name's Avalon."

"Wow," breathed Canada, and he didn't even look annoyed that America had cut him off twice in a row. He kept a hand in Avalon's hair, marveling at just how soft it was, and how tender his skin. "He's so tiny, he must be really new. I guess this means China was right about new countries coming in to take over from the old. You said his name is Avalon? I wonder how long he's been –"

"Take him."

Canada nearly bit off the tip of his own tongue. "Huh?"

"Take him, Mattie," America begged – actually _begged_! – looking at his brother with huge, terrified eyes. "You have to take him. Look at him, he's so little, he needs somebody to take care of him."

"But why me?!"

"Because I _can't_!" America moved as though he was going to thrust Avalon into his brother's arms, but Canada backed off just in time. "I can't be a big brother, a father figure, I'll mess it up! I'll mess _him_ up, I'll ruin him! I'm too reckless, too short-sighted, I can't even take care of myself! But you…you're so _responsible, _Mattie. You'll take good care of him, I know you will, and I'll just stay out of your way from now on. So please…take him."

Canada looked his brother in the eye for a moment, then slowly shook his head. "No."

"Mattie, please!"

"I can't do that, Alfred! I can't just steal him from you!"

That brought America up short, and he clutched Avalon as though Canada had suggested they eat him. Canada smiled the tired, exasperated smile of a caretaker. "Just look at him, Al. He's known you, what, a few hours? Half a day? And he already loves you. And you wouldn't be so scared of hurting him if you didn't love him just as much.

"Besides, I think you need him."

"Me?" America's face softened a bit with his brother's words, his gaze trailing to the boy in his arms hesitantly. "Why would I…?"

"Because Arthur."

America's face continued to soften, as though it were melting and taking his ability to form coherent expressions along with it. He just stared at Avalon with gentle eyes – loving eyes, the way he had looked at England when the older man wasn't looking back.

Canada let his smile widen, with some hesitation. He shuffled closer until he was sure that America wasn't going to freak out again, resting a hand on each of his brother's arms. "You're a good guy, Al. You'll be a good brother for him. You were always good to me."

"No I wasn't."

"…Okay, yeah, that was a lie," Canada shook his head. "But you've grown up since then. The whole world has. It's different now." He voice dropped slightly, tinged dark with the concern from. "Everything's different now."

And it was true. They both knew it in their bones.

America turned his gaze on the child in his arms once more. He was afraid and uncertain. The emotions didn't suit him, they made him look worn and aged. The maturity he wore well, it had been long coming; but the extra burden of fear was just unwelcome and painful.

Canada made up his mind in that moment, shifting a bit closer to his brother with a smile. "If you're really that worried, we can take care of him together."

America jerked back around, surprised. "Together?"

"Yeah – you and me," Canada said, resting his hands on the back of Avalon's shoulders in a sign of camaraderie. "Nobody ever said there could only be one big brother, right? So, let's look out for him together. We can be one big family."

"A family…" It took another moment of contemplation, but America finally grinned at that. "Yeah…Yeah! That sounds great, Mattie! It's such an awesome idea!"

He laughed, and it brought a genuine smile to Canada's face. _This_ was the America he knew. That fire, youth and love of life had been a part of his twin since the beginning. It defined him, energized him and radiated from him to brighten the lives of everything and everyone around him.

If America were to ever really lose that…that, Canada decided, would _really_ be the end of the world.

As though sensing his melancholic thoughts, America turned to his brother with his trademark 100-watt grin. "C'mere, Matt."

He tossed his arm – the one that wasn't supporting Avalon – around Canada's neck and dragged him in for a hug. Canada yelped, lost his balance and tumbled into America's grip, one arm scrambling for a hold on his twin's shoulders, the other wrapping instinctively around Avalon to make sure the child was secure. America continued to chuckle, squeezing both of the bodies in arms tight with love and affection.

"You're the best, Mattie," America whispered against his brother's hair. "You really are. Thanks. For everything."

"You…You're welcome," Canada muttered, and blushed at how stupid that sounded.

Avalon yawned. Canada and America froze on the spot.

"Ack!" America gasped. "We woke him up!"

"Ah…America nii-san?" Avalon questioned, his vowels slurring together sleepily. He opened his eyes, blinked a few times and stared up at the twins in confusion. "There are two of you now."

America laughed at that. Canada chuckled awkwardly, trying to back away, but America grabbed his hand to keep him close by. "Nah, there's only one of me. This is the brother I was tell you about, Canada. Your other big brother."

Avalon turned his head to the side. "I have another brother?"

"Now you do," America grinned and set the boy down on his feet. "We're a family, kiddo. From here on out."

Avalon slipped his hand into America's, tiny fingers clinging to the much larger digits like an insect clutching to a blade of glass. He turned his wide blue eyes to Canada questioningly.

Canada smiled down at him and was suddenly struck by a wave of uncertainty. What if Avalon didn't like him? He'd taken to America quickly enough, but what if that was only because England had been so close to the older North American brother? What if Canada was too quiet for him or too unnoticeable or too…too _French?_

Finally, after what seemed like ages, Avalon stuck out his free hand and grasped at the air. Canada got the hint, leaning down to take the offer the same way America had.

"We're a family," Avalon said softly, squeezing both of his brother's hands. "I think I like that a lot."

America's grin widened, and Canada could hear the cheesy old line bubbling out of him before it could even be spoken. "You know guys, I think this is going to be the start of a beautiful…"

His own stomach cut him off with a growl. Canada grinned knowingly. "Uh-huh. How about we just start with some dinner?"

America scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot like a sheepish child. "Can we have burgers?"

"I don't know," Canada said slowly. He still felt a little miffed about having to throw out America's breakfast. A complete waste of perfectly good maple syrup! "We might be all out of beef."

"Aw, c'mon, Mattie, please?"

Avalon tugged on Canada's hand. "Nii-san, what's a burger?"

America looked horrified. "You hear that? Mattie, did you _hear_ that? He has no idea what a burger is! We can't have that! He must be introduced to the awesome!"

"Okay, okay, _fine!_" Canada relented, raising his free hand in surrender. "But _I'm_ doing the cooking."

"Deal!"

They headed back to the house, with little Avalon swinging from their hands and giggling at their banter without a care in the world. Soon enough, Canada was chuckling as well, trading jokes and games with the smaller boy as they made their way into the kitchen.

Alfred paused by the door, letting Canada and Avalon go in ahead. He rested a hand on the old, worn wood of the door frame and stared out at the overgrown farmlands. The sun had almost set, swallowed the sea that was exactly as it had been before, its steady waves a constant reminder of its eternal presence. America smiled.

"Good night, England," he said softly. "And thank you."

(There's one more chapter to this! It snuck up on me. ^.^; Stay tuned!)


	5. The Blessed

**Title: **Avalon (part 5/5)

**Character(s) or Pairing(s): **US/UK (sort've) Canada, France, mentions of various others. **  
Rating: **PG/K+

**Warnings: **Character death, sort've, but with a happy ending. **  
**

A storm blew in that night, heavy with rain and thunder and hail. The winds roared across the gloomy British shores like a living being, a monster stalking the overgrown orchards and abandoned arboretums in search of its next meal.

Or at least, that's what Canada thought it sounded like when a particularly loud crackle of thunder startled him from his sleep. Being an adult, he was able to rationalize such ridiculous notions away as fleeting fancies left behind by his constant confrontations with Alfred's fear of ghosts. But it occurred to him that Avalon, young as he was, might not have such a defense readily available.

The northern nation climbed out of bed, gathered Kumajiro in his arms and dug a penlight out of his bedside table. He made his way down the hall to the room they had given the boy – not England's old room, that was a wound that still felt too raw, but a former guest room – with silent steps, using the light to guide his way.

When he cracked open the door, a smile wormed its way over his face. Really, it had been so silly of him to worry.

A hero would never let his little brother face the storm alone.

America and Avalon were curled together on the queen-sized bed, with the child snuggled happily in his brother's the protective embrace. Carefully, Canada swung the penlight around to check that Alfred had removed his glasses – he had – and was startled when his southern twin suddenly moved. "Ah…"

"Sorry," Canada apologized quickly, shutting the light off. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"'Sokay," America yawned, stretching his shoulders and rolling over to grin at his brother. "You doing all right?"

"Yeah. Just wanted to check in," Canada shrugged, reaching for the doorknob. "But I see everything's okay. You guys sleep well…"

"You don't have to go away, Mattie," said America, sitting up and motioning his brother over. "You'll be lonely all by yourself. The bed's big enough for all of us. C'mon, stay here."

Canada smiled and stepped into the room, pushing the door closed behind him. "All right, then."

He made his way to the other side of the bed, setting Kumajiro down at the end. America slid back just enough to make room, and Canada crawled in with only a slight creak from the bedsprings. Avalon yawned in his sleep, making a cute noise like a new-born kitten, and rolled over to cuddle into Canada's shoulder.

Canada's smile widened as he slipped an arm around the child's waist. "Was he scared?"

"A bit," America said softly, sliding his arm over his brother's. The other was curled under him so he could hold Avalon's hand, stroking the little palm with his fingers. "But he's a tough kid. I think he just wanted the extra warmth."

Canada chuckled, taking off his glasses and setting them on top of the headboard. He settled down and mimicked his brother's pose, keeping one arm on Avalon's waist and using the other to hold his hand.

Every time the lightning flashed outside the widow, it illuminated Avalon's face. The light caught on his pale features, the white hair and eyebrows shining as bright as mid-day snow. Canada rubbed the palm that he held with his fingers, lost for a moment in his own thoughts.

"Hey, Alfred?"

"Yeah?" asked America sleepily. He'd been drifting off again.

"I forgot to tell you. Kiku called earlier, while you were out."

"Mm? And what's up with him?"

"…They think that Hong Kong's gone too."

America opened his eyes at that, his exhaustion chased away for a few minutes. "Gone? Like, _gone_?"

"Yeah. Tibet, too."

"Jesus," America swore, then bit his tongue and gave Avalon a quick glance to make sure he was still asleep. He was.

Canada sighed, squeezing the child's hand. "It's happening all over the world now. People are dying, countries are starting to dissolve. And Our Kind…I don't know how many of us are going to make it out of this." He looked up at his twin, his eyebrows knotting together in concern. "Everything's going to be different now, isn't' it?"

"Mattie," America lifted his arm from Avalon's waist and brushed his brother's hair out of his eyes. "It's going to be okay."

Canada frowned a bit deeper, uncertain. America nodded to the child who still slept soundly between them. "Look at him, Mattie."

Canada looked. It was a beautiful sight.

"He's just the first, you know?" America continued with unusual gentleness. "I bet there will be more like him along eventually. Lots more. And they're going to need someone to watch out for them all. Show them the ropes, right? Like England and France did for us."

The northern twin sighed, thinking of how old France had looked during his visit. He worried for his older brother. Was it really only a matter of time? "Yeah, but…"

He bit his lip. America grinned. "It's okay to be scared, you know. You've got a hero to protect you!"

That made Canada crack a smile. He pulled his arm from Avalon's waist and gave America's shoulder a good-natured slap. "The world as we know it is coming to an end and you keep saying things like that. Really, you never change."

America laughed, and Canada kept smiling. He slid his hand down the length of his brother's arm, entwining their fingers over Avalon's side. "...Thank you for that."

"It's what I do, Mattie." America said, and yawned again. He leaned over Avalon's head to rub his nose against his brother's affectionately, the way they had as children on the rare occasion they were away from their guardians' ever-watchful eyes. "Whatever happens next, we'll worry about it in the morning. Okay?"

"Okay."

Avalon yawned, snuggling deeper into the warm blankets and pillows. His fingers curled against their palms, searching for a non-existent purchase but content even when they could not find it. Canada smiled at him. "You know…he doesn't have a name yet. A human name."

"Of course he does." America said, he consonants slurring strangely. "He's Arthur."

Canada jerked a little at that, but America had already fallen asleep, holding both of their hands like lifelines. His face was peaceful and bore a smile that was content. It was not the face of a man clinging to his past, but of one ready to move on into the future, with one last dedication to the person he had loved.

Canada sighed, settling back against the pillows. "A little Arthur, huh?" he said softly, more to himself than anyone else. "Sounds good to me."

Before he could finally get settled, Kumajiro scrambled up from the foot of the bed. The bear looked bewildered to find his usual spot beside the warm-man-who-gave-food taken up by a child, but he adjusted well enough, slipping under Canada's elbow and shifting around until he was comfortable. Canada sighed and, knowing now that everyone in the house was safe and warm, allowed himself to drift to sleep.

Outside, the storm raged on. But inside, the new family slept on, aware of nothing but each other's warmth and the comfort to be found therein. The world around them shifted and changed, going through the paces of history one more time. Tomorrow, they would have to face that change, but for tonight, it could pass them by.

They were safe, and they had each other. And that was enough for now.

**Fin.**

(If this fic had credits, they would totally be put to the Hank Green song "Looking for Alaska." It set the tone for this entire fic. Also, if anyone's curious, in my mind at least, Avalon's full human name is Arthur Williams-Jones, called "Artie" or "Ar-two" for short.

Hope that everyone enjoyed, thank you for reading!)


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